Question Four
by oldmule
Summary: Harry poses a question in the midst of S9 at a time when he and Ruth can see anything but each other.
1. Chapter 1

**Inspired by the song 'White Blank Page' by Mumford and Son - the lyrics are theirs and the song most definitely worth listening to. Set around early S9 when things H/R are most uneasy.****  
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He had turned away from her, asking only for her to see the man he was. But in his heart he knew she would not, could not. Somehow she had become blinded to him. A thousand times she could have seen him for who he was.

But no longer.

He walked away in vain. The weight of the world on his shoulders.

Now he did not hurry into work, eager to see her, to catch a smile, to feel that shiver that ran through him as he caught her looking at him.

Those days were gone. Now she avoided him, moved away from him, questioned him, blamed him, judged him, refused him.

xx

He stepped into his house, turned on some music and reached for the scotch, pouring a beyond large measure into an oft used glass that he no longer felt the need to wash.

Two hours later he was still there. The bottle was empty and the same piece of music was still playing.

xx

Ruth found the envelope in her desk drawer.

It was unmarked but sealed.

She opened it.

Out fell a USB stick accompanied by a single white piece of paper. On it was the most familiar of writing.

_The answer to Question One: Yes, I could._

_The answer to Question Two: Yes, I could._

_The answer to Question Three: No, sadly, regretfully, no… far from it._

_As for Question Four, Ruth … that is for you to answer._

She glanced towards his office instinctively, knowing already that he was not there. Tempted to look at the stick, she instead slid it into her bag. The grid was not the place for this. Working together had been difficult enough lately without whatever digital riddles lay waiting for her to read, whatever game he was playing.

xx

She stepped into her house, poured a large measure of wine into a clean, shiny glass and opened her laptop.

The contents of the USB stick were minimal, singular in fact. One file. One single MP3 file.

Balanced finely somewhere between apprehension, intrigue and unwillingness she loaded it and pressed play.

A song.

Something as simple as a song.

She held the piece of paper in her hands as a guitar sounded.

Thirteen seconds later the lyrics began and posed the first question – the question to which his answer was "Yes, I could."

_Can you lie next to her and give her your heart… your heart, as well as your body?_

His answer was the same for Question 2.

_Can you lie next to her and confess your love… your love, as well as your folly?_

Question 3.

_And can you kneel before the King and say I'm clean… I'm clean?_

She knew he was hardly that, never that. And he knew it more than all.

But then came Question Four. The all important Question Four.

_Tell me now where was my fault, in loving you with my whole heart?_

_Oh, tell me now where was my fault, in loving you with my whole heart?_

Now he had her attention_._ Now she listened.

_A white blank page and a swelling rage._

_You did not think, when you sent me to the brink…to the brink._

_You desired my attention but denied my affections…my affections._

_So tell me now where was my fault, in loving you with my whole heart?_

And following the question came the plea.

_Lead me to the truth and I will follow you with my whole life._

__Oh, lead me to the truth and I will follow you with my whole life.__

She reached the end of the song and she pressed play. She pressed play over and over again. And again. And over again.

Until she knew the words by heart, the questions by heart, the tone by heart and the rebuke by heart.

But she still didn't know the answer to Question Four.


	2. Chapter 2

Ruth was lost. Lost within herself. Lost within her own living room.

She looked inward.

She looked and she searched and she studied and she analysed.

She reached out for fault, she focused on fault, but she found none.

No, that was not totally accurate: she found fault, it's true.

But it was her fault. Not his.

It was her failing. Not his.

It was her answers that were lacking. Not his.

_You desired my attention but denied my affections._

There was only one party here that was selfless. And it was not she.

She thought of all the moments she had received his favours, his favouritism, his faith and his trust. How she had relished them, treasured every confidence, wallowed in them all.

And yet.

She wanted to be so much and yet nothing. She wanted his attention but when it was more, yes, she denied him.

Teased and tormented?

Yes, she supposed that was effectively what she did. She pulled him to her and then she refused him. Desire and denial. Attention and affection. They were all hand in hand.

_Can you lie next to her and give her your heart… your heart, as well as your body?_

_Can you lie next to her and confess your love… your love, as well as your folly?_

Yes, he could do that

Could she?

Lying next to him. What thoughts did that conjure?

What did she want?

The great romance. The grand, great, epic romance.

That of legend, that of her books. The unattainable love story, filled with passion and need, but bound by duty and restraint. The kind of love where even fate and the elements conspired against them.

Is that what she thought she had?

Is that what she preferred because it was grander and more glorious than the reality of a relationship. Was it safer to know the strength of his feeling without letting him show it? Safer to idealise than to argue about who should put the bins out and who used the last of the toothpaste?

Was that too ordinary for her?

Or was that what she was afraid of?

She went to bed that night, the music still reverberating around her head. She brushed her teeth, squeezing the last of the toothpaste from its tube and then she looked up and stared quizzically at her reflection in the mirror.


	3. Chapter 3

The bus reached its stop too soon, she was still prevaricating.

She convinced herself that it wasn't prevarication, she was simply being thorough, dotting the i's and crossing the t's. If she were honest she would have accepted that it was the t's which she'd dotted and the i's that she had crossed: her thoughts being far removed from the rational.

She stepped through the doors of Thames House, mind still elsewhere, trying to recall Harry's diary for the day, in the hope she could manage to avoid him.

"Ruth," exclaimed Harry as she practically bundled him over, such was her lack of attention.

She looked up at him and saw the beginnings of the unspoken question behind his eyes, the one that would want to know if she had an answer.

"Sorry, bit late," she blathered, thrusting forward a Boots bag, "...I needed toothpaste."

He smiled, lifting his hand and revealing an identical bag, "There's clearly a shortage."

They looked at each other awkwardly and then both turned for the lifts, but the thought of being enclosed in a small space with him, with no means of escape, was too much and so she nodded towards a conveniently passing analyst from Section C and made her excuses, leaving him none the wiser as to whether she had even seen his letter, let alone contemplated an answer.

And as the two of them moved apart, that was where they were: north and south, east and west; poles apart.

Harry dreamt of coming home with her, of sharing his tea, his toast, his bed. He craved the practicality; he was more than ready for the reality.

Ruth's dreams were just that ... dreams; ethereal, enveloping but never touching. She shunned practicality, in truth, where he was concerned, she shunned reality.

As she belatedly stepped onto the grid she had more questions than answers, but for the first time she perhaps began to understand something.

Had she lost herself in playing the martyr, she wondered?

Was it easier to lose him, than to love him?

Harry stepped from his office, "Ruth!" A tilt of his head completed the summons.

She took a deep breath.

She really wasn't ready for this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for your, as ever, generous reviews. This is where we may take a slight turn in the tale. Short chapters I am afraid - but at least that means relatively quick updates.**

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"What do you know about New Dawn?"

Well, that was certainly not the question she had been expecting, nor dreading.

"How far back do you want me to go?" she asked, surprised.

"The last month."

"Very quiet, we've had barely anything. Sigor Atronov resurfaced 10 days ago in Sebastopol, other than meeting a couple of long term supporters there was nothing else to report."

"Hmm," was all he said, perching on the corner of his desk.

"Why?" She queried.

"An asset of mine, suggesting he has something, that we meet, that his intel's linked to them."

She waited for more but nothing was forthcoming.

"So, what's troubling you?"

He shook his head and stood up, " I don't know...something ... a feeling."

She half smiled, "That sounds like something I'd say."

"I don't think so, Ruth, the last thing you'd be talking about right now is feelings."

The half smile evaporated from her lips. She felt the admonishment.

"Harry, I ... " she had no idea what the rest of her sentence would be, but it did not matter as he cut her off.

"It's fine, it'll be nothing. Thank you."

It was a dismissal. But she didn't go.

"Harry," she began again, "I just need ... some time ...some time to properly answer your question."

So she had read the letter. She had heard the song.

"It's an easy enough question, Ruth," he said gently.

"Perhaps for you."

He shook his head and looked away.

"That will be all."

And with that she was dismissed.


	5. Chapter 5

Ruth had plenty to do. She had all of the previous nights intel to evaluate, beside the small matter of finding the answer that Harry craved so much.

She did neither of these things however.

Instead she spent the morning reassessing all that she had and all that she could find on New Dawn. By the time Harry came back her intent was to have more than he could have ever expected, to even have that which his asset may have only just told him. It was an intent not for upmanship, not for show, not to prove anything. It was all done for the single purpose of eliciting that short, brief, almost imperceptible look on his face, the look that expressed his surprise, his wonderment, his admiration and his love of her and all that she was capable. That is what she craved, that is what fed her and that is what she needed now.

She needed to remind him of what they could achieve, here, together, on the grid.

She needed to remind him of all that they already were, so that she could worry less about what he wanted them to be.

And so she ploughed ever onward.

xx

His finger slid over the screen and hit the button.

"Sir Harry, it's the Home Secretary's office. I just wanted to check you were aware of your appointment. If you could give me a call. Thank you"

BEEP

"Harry, it's Beth, the HS is after you. Let me know if you need me to make your excuses."

BEEP

"It's Lucas. Beth said she couldn't reach you. Everything alright?"

BEEP

"Harry, where the bloody hell are you? I'm meeting the PM in ten minutes and I have no idea what I'm briefing him on. For gods sake pick up the phone, man!"

BEEP

"Harry, Lucas. Give us a call before we send out the cavalry."

BEEP

"It's me. Are you okay? If you can, please call, Harry."

BEEP. YOU HAVE NO MORE MESSAGES

The hand took the phone, slid open the car window and casually threw it out onto the passing tarmac beyond.


	6. Chapter 6

The olive skinned man closed the car window, pondering the rather intimate tone of the woman who had left the final message: there were no endearments, nothing specific but he had heard the care, the affection, in her voice.

Unfortunately for her, that concern could not help Harry Pearce now.

xx

"Is that is? He said nothing more?"

Ruth shook her head.

"And we've got no idea of the asset, nor the meeting place?" repeated Lucas.

Ruth didn't need to shake her head this time.

"Great!" his hand banged against the desk.

"Could he have just gone awol?" asked Beth.

Lucas laughed.

"This is Harry we are talking about," added Tariq.

"Ruth?" Beth turned to her, "Could he? Is there any reason he may have just… I don't know... gone off somewhere? Been upset by something?"

Perhaps Beth hadn't been there that long but she was aware enough. And perhaps it needed her, the newcomer, to ask the question.

"There was something," Ruth admitted, quietly.

Lucas looked up at her.

"Something… but not enough."

"Ruth?" questioned Dimitri.

"No," she shook her head, "He was upset, but not enough to disappear."

"Upset about what?" queried Lucas, suspecting that he knew it had something to do with her.

"Something personal," she said, this time defiantly.

Dimitri and Beth exchanged glances, Tariq looked at the floor, whilst Lucas just stared.

"He said he had a feeling … that something was wrong. About the asset, the intel, the meeting – I don't know what."

"Well, if he's just gone awol, he'll no doubt walk through the door anytime soon," Lucas glanced at Ruth, "…whatever the reason. But if he _was_ seriously worried about the meet then, I can only imagine, knowing Harry, that he took some precautions."

A light flashed in Ruth's eyes.

She stood and hurriedly left the room.

xx

The cable tie bit hard and tore at his skin.

He masked his face with pain and confusion, blinking against the light, whilst all the time trying to take in every detail of his surroundings.

He calculated if he could try to escape this situation.

He imagined every scenario.

He envisaged every variation.

He wondered how much pain he was going to be subjected to.

And he worried about how much he could survive before he might say too much, putting lives that should be safe, at risk.

xx

Ruth eased her fingers into the leather fold beneath the chair. She teased and cajoled and as she did the small key gave way and submitted to her touch. She stepped to Harry's desk drawer pushing it into the lock.

It was just one of the many confidences he had shared with her, and her alone.

Lucas and the others appeared at the door, looking on as she slid open the drawer.

They watched her as she rifled through its contents and they studied her as the emotions spread across her face before she finally stood upright and faced them.

"His gun's not here."

Lucas nodded, "Precautuions," was all he said and turned away.

"Lucas?!" Ruth called, stopping him in his tracks.

"There's something else missing."

Somehow she couldn't say the words, so she pointed towards the drawer but what was there to see, it was gone. The thing that normally lay beside the gun - the container, the capsule, the pill, the drug of last resort, was also gone.

And it was that which sent a ramrod of cold, sharp fear down her spine.


	7. Chapter 7

They had nothing.

Not one lead.

Not one hint.

Nothing.

Yes, New Dawn had been mentioned but there were no links, no members in London, nothing.

From the cctv, Tariq found nothing.

Phone traces gave a moving phone on the North Circular, then a stationary phone beside the north circular.

The traffic cameras in the area showed, nothing.

Number plate recognition showed, nothing.

And Ruth?

Ruth knew nothing.

She felt a huge nothing shaped hole within.

She could think of nothing.

She could feel ... everything.


	8. Chapter 8

**I'm sorry this is such a short chapter again but it's been a long week! I promise the next will be more substantial.**

* * *

It was early, or was it late?

No one had gone home, no one had left the grid. They were all still fruitlessly searching for something, for anything that might lead them to Harry.

Ruth rubbed at her eyes, she had barely moved from her desk.

There had to be something that she'd missed, there had to be a way of finding Harry's asset.

There had to be a way of finding him.

"Here!" shouted Tariq.

They all turned as one and sprang to his desk.

On the screen was a full length image of Harry: bound, gagged and bleeding.

Lucas glanced at Ruth, she was trying to clamp down on the rising panic she felt.

A computer programmed voice spoke in an unnatural tone.

'_There are eight New Dawn members imprisoned in the UK.'_

The slumped figure of Harry suddenly began violently shaking, as a jolt of electricity passed through the metallic bonds which held him.

Ruth's hand flew to her mouth.

Beth's hand moved to her shoulder in comfort, but there was no comfort.

Harry stilled.

His chin fell back to his chest. His ribs rose and fell in heavy, pained breaths.

The digital voice continued.

'_Those prisoners will be released within the next 48 hours, or the information procured from your colleague will be sold around the world.'_

The video cut out.

For a long moment no one spoke, no one moved.

"If they break him, he knows more than most of the security services put together," warned Lucas.

"They won't break him," insisted Beth.

Dimitri shook his head, "Is that something we can risk?"

"And if he still has access to the cyanide pill?" breathed Ruth quietly, gazing up at Lucas.

"Then, given the chance, Ruth, I would imagine he'll use it."

Yesterday she had wondered if she would rather lose him, than love him.

Today she knew the answer


	9. Chapter 9

**Okay, I admit it - I lied! It was meant to be long but I wrote this section of it and it felt right to just leave it as it's own chapter, so here it is and it's short again!**

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Harry was hurting.

He knew he would continue to hurt.

And he knew that this hurt was as nothing, compared to the hurt to come.

So far he had revealed nothing.

But that wouldn't last. Soon he would have to say something.

And so he focused on what was safe to say: what sounded relevant, but wasn't; what appeared major but was minor.

He focused on that and not on her. Useless fact was what he needed now, not useless sentiment. And she was sentiment.

She was all.

But it was not easy, to not think of her, for she was always within him.

She loved him, of that he was sure. Loved him with some sort of love, a sort that was for her, enough. She loved him at arm's length, but he didn't want arm's length, he wanted up close and personal.

He wanted intimate.

He had wanted it for a long while, but now more than ever, he felt his time running out and the need to achieve that closeness had become overwhelming. It had made him angry and frustrated, it had made him want to shout at her and shake her, but instead he had stood back, written a letter and given her a song.

Weak, he thought of himself, too weak, too timid, too accepting.

And now this.

He would probably never know what her answer was.

But he could guess.

A faltering, an excuse, a denial and a stagnant stalemate, that in truth, did neither of them any good.

But when the next pain came and he tried to focus on dates and facts and names full of irrelevance, it would still be her face that lived within him and it would be her gentle ministrations that would tend his hurt.

Because he had no one but her.

And she was all.

And always would be.


	10. Chapter 10

**A chapter of plot and little else. **

**I don't own the names, or the books, and it's all made up!**

* * *

"The source of the message?"

Tariq shook his head, "Untraceable."

"Anything in the voice software?" continued Lucas.

"I'm running it but …" again Tariq shook his head.

Lucas stood up suddenly, sending his chair thudding back.

"Mute video, no one in vision other than Harry, no trace of anything!" he recovered his temper, "Any word from Dimitri?" he asked of Beth.

"He's in Glasgow, meeting the last New Dawn prisoner, but so far nothing."

"And how's Ruth getting on?"

More than one set of eyes looked out through the glass window.

She was bent over her desk, staring at her screen: intent, focused, immovable.

"Right," said Lucas. He didn't really need an answer.

Ruth's screen was frozen on the image of Harry. She was unblinkingly peering – but not at him. This was all they had, this silent image.

And from this she must find him.

A room: large; wooden floorboards; teal coloured walls, painted not papered; plush full length deep red velvet curtains, pulled to obscure the view; a wooden door, possibly Georgian; a large brass doorknob. The chair on which he was sat was not of the room, it was modern, plastic and incredibly common.

She just needed something, something to lock on to, something that she could pursue, but there appeared to be nothing. Not a single thing.

She was tired, her eyes stung, her head ached but she thought of him and her discomfort was as nothing.

She blinked her eyes, rubbed her face and after the briefest of glances towards his empty office she looked again, determined, desperate and as much as she could manage – detached.

There was something there, she could see it and now she felt it, felt the thrill of the quest, knew there was the merest hint of something, and for Ruth the merest hint was all that was needed.

The meeting room door slammed open,

"He's in Suffolk,"

All eyes turned to her.

She took control of the viewing screen and punched up the image of Harry.

"In the doorknob, there's a reflection,"

Again the image increased in size and again in clarity.

"It's the other corner of the room,"

They could see a bookcase and a small table. It was hardly decisive.

Another enhanced enlarged image.

"They've got first edition Dickens, Hardy and the Illustrated 'Birds of America'!"

None but Ruth were quite that excited.

"There's only one collector who has that combination of rare works, James Highgrave!"

Now they got it.

"He's owns property all over the world," Tariq was already diving to his computer.

"But this is here!" Ruth punched up a final image of a three pin socket sitting at the foot of the table lamp.

"See! I've already checked and he has three properties in the UK, one is currently being used by his daughter, the second is hired out to a business colleague and the third … is closed for renovation."

Lucas was already on the phone ordering a helicopter.

Beth was calling for CO19 back up.

Tariq had almost found the floorplans for the house and estate.

And Ruth.

Ruth was slumped in a chair, her head in her hands, exhausted.

Willing him still alive.


	11. Chapter 11

Ruth was asleep.

Two wired nights of adrenalin fuelled worry had taken their toll and as much as she wanted to stay conscious, her brain would not allow it and so it shut down.

But there was no escape from Harry, he was in her fragmented dreams: dreams of horror and hurt and all the things left unsaid.

She had wanted to go to Suffolk, but Lucas had persuaded her that if Harry was no longer there, then she needed to be here, to begin the search again.

When the comms sprang open, her eyes followed suit, her breath stalling in her lungs as the news began to filter through.

xx

Now it was time for his eyes to open, but his was a rather slow, more pained process. But at the end of it was the balm.

"Ruth," he whispered wearily.

She stood above him.

"How do you feel..." she asked, "... or is that a silly question?"

"How do I look?"

"You've looked better," she said gently and she would have reached out and taken his hand but both were bandaged, as were his wrists.

"Is there any part of you that doesn't hurt?"

He tried to smile, but felt the effort twinge across the muscles of his cheek.

"No, Ruth, I don't believe there is?"

She looked at his face, the viscous black eye, the cut across the bridge of his nose, the harsh bruising around his jaw. And then she leant in to the full, soft, unharmed lips.

And she kissed them.

It was beyond gentle, verging on the featherlight.

"Perhaps just there?" she said.

"There feels fine," he answered, overwhelmed with both surprise and elation.

She stroked a tiny bit or hair away from his forehead and he exalted and relaxed in the touch.

"The fault was never yours, Harry" she whispered. "It was mine... And for that, I'm sorry."

But when she looked back, he was asleep.

* * *

**it should be simple but it's them. So a mix of angst and fluff to come**.


	12. Chapter 12

**Apologies for the long delay for this chapter, but been a bit under the weather. It's short but there shouldn't be a big gap till the next. **

* * *

Harry was at home.

He'd been told to take at least a week off, he'd decided a couple of days would suffice.

It was 6.30, he was hungry but he did not eat.

On the night he had spent in hospital she had to come to him. She has kissed him, briefly, lightly, gently. He was certain she had. He was sure he had not dreamt it. Almost.

Since then she had hovered around him with concern and care, with a smile that had not been there a few days ago.

She had offered to do anything she could when he was released, but he had graciously refused: he had his reasons. The one thing she had insisted upon was that she bring him a proper meal, and so yesterday, at 6.30, she had arrived with a large, weighty pot of stew, the likes of which he hadn't tasted since sitting at his mother's table when he was a boy.

As before she had been tender and considerate, she had chatted about the grid, her choir, how she hadn't cooked this recipe for several years herself, as it always seemed too much for one.

Her hand had drifted across his shoulder as she passed him at the table. She had held his gaze without looking away. She had kissed him when she left about two hours later: a delicate kiss somewhere between cheek and lip, followed by a flash of intense blue, wide eyes.

But she hadn't said anything. Anything about his question, her answer, anything about her feelings, or his, or to what extent things may have changed.

And now he stood at the window expecting her again.

But this time he expected the answer.


	13. Chapter 13

"Ruth, my question ... question four? I need you to answer it."

She didn't glance up from her beef bourguignon.

"I have,"

He frowned, confused.

"In the hospital."

"Oh," he would have sworn blind that had she told him, he would have remembered.

"You were asleep", she added, finally looking up with a glimmer of a smile.

"I see."

He didn't really see.

He just wanted to be put out of his misery.

"I believe my actual words were 'the fault was never yours, Harry, it was mine. And for that, I'm sorry'."

"You're sorry?"

She nodded.

His bandaged hand stopped playing with his knife and stilled.

"You might have to give me a clue as to the exact meaning and consequences of the 'sorry', Ruth?"

He waited patiently while she finished her forkful of food.

"Sorry, that I made you feel like that. Sorry that I loved you, but never said. Sorry, for everything really."

Harry wondered what had happened to reticence, hesitancy and reluctance.

"I probably should have said," she added quietly.

"That would have been ... constructive, Ruth."

She finally lay aside her knife and fork.

"Yes, well, I simply needed you to be kidnapped and tortured to realise it, Harry."

"I see now how misguided I was to think that proposing might possibly have done the trick."

They both looked at each other and smiled.

At opposite sides of the dining table. They gazed and smiled.

The clock on the wall ticked rhythmically but they didn't hear it.

"Suddenly I find there's a distinct lack of elephants in the room," she said.

"In our case, it's been going on for so long, Ruth, I rather think they'd be wooly mammoths."

She laughed.

He laughed.

And they sat.

"I thought you might use it," she said, her smile beginning to fade, "...the... kill pill."

He tilted his head curiously.

"You took it, " she said.

"I'm still here, Ruth."

"No, you took it with you. It wasn't in your office drawer."

He laughed suddenly.

"I think you'll find everything has a sell by date, Ruth."

"Oh!" she said, feeling rather foolish.

"Including me."

"I thought you might ..."

"Well, I didn't."

"That's good," she said quietly.

"I'd like to think so."

And they were back smiling, eyes alight.

And now he had to say it.

"Ruth, I need more. You know that, don't you?"

She nodded and for the first time that night glanced away.

"I can't step back again."

"Can we ... take a little time, Harry?"

He stared at her intently.

He shook his head.

"No, I don't think we can, Ruth. I feel like I don't have anymore time left to waste, I can feel it ticking ...slipping away and I can't ever get it back."

He waited for her to say something in reply: a reply he both dreaded and anticipated.

"I'm afraid that we'll argue over the toothpaste," she said.

He felt it truly justifiable to be confused.

"And the bins and the dishcloth and how to stack the dishwasher and all the things that don't really matter."

Finally, he thought, Ruth Evershed was back in the room. And now she had started there was no stopping.

"And where's the romance in that? There is none. It's so petty and menial and irrelevant. And then this ... this, thing, that's been between us for so long will become something plain and ordinary and it won't feel the same and it'll be ..."

"Ruth!"

She stopped.

"'This thing' as you call it, will never, ever, be ordinary."

"But..."

"And no, it won't be the same. Thank god! It will be better, I promise you, it will only be better."

She had stopped talking and was finally listening.

"Besides which, Ruth, I haven't got a dishwasher."

The room was still.

Waiting.

"I suppose we'll never know until we try," she said, finally.

"Not the most enthusiastic of acceptances I've ever heard."

"You've listened to plenty, have you?" and the smile was back in her eyes.

"This is the only one that's ever mattered, Ruth."

They were still sat apart, untouching, separate. And yet they had never felt so unseparated in their lives.

"Are you sure?" she asked, needing that final reassurance.

"More sure than I've ever been."

She pushed her plate away from her and removed the serviette from her lap.

"Should I stay tonight?" she asked quietly.

He paused a moment and then shook his head.

They looked at each other, he exceedingly surprised by her question, she by the unexpectedness of his answer.

He lifted his bandaged right hand before him.

"The first time you stay, Ruth, I'd prefer not to miss any part of it," he smiled sexily.

"As long as you don't pass your 'sell by', in the meantime?" she blushed but never let her eyes leave his.

He smiled.

"That, Ruth, shall be my second promise of the night."

* * *

**Pos epilogue to come, not sure yet. **


	14. Chapter 14

**Still might continue with this for a wee bit longer**

* * *

Two, delicate kisses; one candlelit dinner; a series of small, intimate, clandestine gestures; and one overwhelming, nerve shaking, all encompassing snog.

That, in a nutshell, was a fair summation of the week that followed beef bourguignon.

It was a week that had seen Harry return to work, struggling on occasion with his bandaged hands.

A week that had seen Ruth, seemingly no longer in need of hiding her affection.

A week in which Harry Pearce, for the first and only time in his life, had visited the service psychiatrist. For as accustomed as he could ever be to the nightmares and flashbacks, he knew that this was his last chance of a life and quite honestly, he would do whatever it may take.

On the grid they had given little away but it was clear to all that they had reached some sort of understanding.

In the small kitchen behind the forgery suite, Ruth was making tea. Earl grey tea. And a coffee for him.

She felt him there before she saw or heard him.

He was behind her.

He stepped close, very close.

There was still enough of the illicit, the exciting and the unexpected, to make her feel as she had years before.

"Anything for me, Ruth?" he breathed into her ear.

"Besides the coffee?" she turned towards him, his mug cradled in her hands, "I left it black ... the milk's off."

"Past its sell by?"

He radiated a playfulness, yet an intensity, that drew her like a magnet and she was suddenly and powerfully grateful that it no longer made her want to run from him.

What was this thing he could do to her, just standing there, close but not touching?

"Talking of which," he continued, "would you like to come to mine for dinner, tonight?"

"You're cooking?

"In a fashion," he smiled.

"Yes, Harry, I'd love to."

"Good."

He didn't move but just kept gazing into her eyes, a molten stare.

She felt the heat rising.

"Shall I put this on your desk?'" she asked of the coffee.

"I'll take it."

And his hands slid around hers, so they were in effect both cradling the cup.

She looked down, watching his fingers tantalisingly moving over hers. She liked the way their hands blended together.

And then her eyes shot back to his.

"The bandages…?"

A smile edged his lips.

"Back to full capacity, Ruth," he whispered.

And with that he took the coffee and turned away.


	15. Chapter 15

The door swung open.

He smiled, a warm, seductive smile but the thing that she loved most, was that beneath it, she could see his nervousness.

And for all that she wanted to be seduced, she needed it to matter as much to him, as to her.

And of course, it did.

He kissed her on the cheek, his hand met her waist and lingered, as she began to shrug off her coat.

"Something smells good," she said, of the aroma coming from the kitchen.

"Indeed it does," he was behind her, face close to her neck, admiring the scent of the perfume which she had sprayed only moments before ringing the doorbell.

"I hope you're hungry, Ruth?'

Now he was standing before her.

"Yes, I am rather."

"That's good," he breathed.

And she was hungry. They were both hungry. Hungry for the next step; hungry for something that should never have taken this long. Hungry, ravenous, in fact; but beyond that they were both equally as determined to savour each and every moment.

"Why did you say 'In a fashion', Harry? This is stunning."

"Do you think?"

"It's delicious, really unbelievably delicious."

"Unbelievably?" he repeated, eyebrows raised.

"Well, not 'unbelievably', I didn't really mean 'unbelievabIe'. I could believe anything of you. It's just a little … well, unexpected that you're so good."

She looked down at the food and then back up, with a sense of dawning dread.

"Oh god, you were just been polite about my stew and bourguignon, weren't you?!"

He was smiling at her, but she couldn't read if it was condescending, smug, polite, or simply fond.

"Your food was wonderful, Ruth."

"Yes, but it's not … this!" she looked again at the stunning plate before her.

"This," he said, brandishing a finger of asparagus, is courtesy of the head chef at The Ivy, who owed me a favour."

She laughed, "…Of a fashion!"

"Yes, a cheated fashion from a fashionable place, for someone who deserves so much better than all and anything I can ever serve up."

"I wouldn't say that, Harry," she smiled, "I'd never say that."

And for a moment in time they forgot how good the food was and got a little bit lost, one with the other.


	16. Chapter 16

She opened the cupboard door in search of tea bags.

"It's okay, Ruth, I'll do it," Harry called, striding quickly from the stairs towards the kitchen.

As he stepped through the door he saw her, standing face to face with a cupboard stacked high with around twenty boxes of earl grey.

She turned to him confused, "You don't drink earl grey."

He walked over, picking out a single box and then closing the cupboard door.

"Harry?"

"I thought if we didn't run out of it, we'd have something less to argue about…not that I actually think we will argue and if we do, it really won't matter."

He began opening the box, gathering the cups, refusing to look at her.

Ruth started laughing.

"And who said romance was dead?" she smiled.

Harry stopped.

A lop sided grin started to slide across his face.

"Wait until you see the bathroom. I think I rather overdid it on the toothpaste as well!"

Her small hand slid into his.

"Thank you, Harry," she said.

"Best not thank me yet, it might not be the type you like."

"No..." she shook her head, "... not for the toothpaste. Thank you for having listened to me, even when I was making little sense and worrying about the most ridiculous things."

"I've no doubt that I have more failings than most, Ruth, but all I want is this..." he lifted her hand gently to his lips, ".. and I'll pay heed to whatever it is that worries, or annoys you, so that I can eradicate it before it ever becomes a problem."

"The bus conductor on the number 42 annoys me most mornings."

"I do, however, draw the line at eradicating innocent bus conductors. Even for you."

She pouted slightly in mock indignation.

"Besides which, I hope that soon you won't need to bother with the number 42."

"Because I'll be here?" she asked quietly.

"Because you'll be here."

They both stood on the edge: knowing it was the edge.

He bent forward and kissed her lightly on the lips and then he smiled and she was hypnotised once more by the hazel flecks in his wonderfully dilated eyes.

"Tea, then?" he ventured, "… we have plenty."

And the only thing that Ruth noticed, was the 'we'.

She shook her head.

"No, I don't think so."

Her eyes flicked across every inch of his face, before finally settling back on those eyes: those loyal, intense, loving eyes.

"I think I'd rather we just go to bed, Harry."


	17. Chapter 17

He stood before her.

She had slipped off her shoes. She was smaller than he had expected, more delicate. He wanted to protect her; he wanted to treasure her; he wanted to have her and to hold her.

She stood before him.

He was taller than she had expected, more present, more powerful, more physical. She wanted to lose herself in him; she wanted to be part of him; she wanted to be consumed by him.

They didn't touch.

They stood.

The tungsten light from the streetlamp reached through the window and eased its way across the room, falling gently across the large wooden bed and the two stationary figures, face to face behind it.

He slowly lifted his hands.

She slowly lifted her hands.

Their actions, reflected, one as the other.

His fingers delicately worked loose each of the small, pretty buttons of her blouse. Top to bottom. Eyes focused, hands steady.

Her fingers eased open, one by one, each of the buttons of his shirt. Top to bottom. Eyes focused, hands steady.

When buttons were no more, they paused and looked back to each other momentarily.

And then his eyes slipped down again, his hands reaching just inside the soft material of the blouse, running very slowly upwards, from bottom to top; fingers skimming the skin, tantalisingly close but passing; until one fingertip stretched out, running briefly over the lace of the bra and on up the line of her cleavage and up her neck before curling away. His hands up and over her shoulders, now pushing away the material, persuading it away, until it fell at her feet.

And now her hands were running the same line, her fingers grazing the hairs across his stomach and up and over his chest. The shirt edges resting against the back of her hands until it reached the zenith of his shoulders, where it fell to join hers on the floor.

His eyes drifted and plunged, traced and caressed the revelation of the body before him: the only unknown, of the woman he knew so well.

Her eyes darted and marked, scanned and absorbed the revelation of the body before her: on it all the pain and hurt which the service had required of him over so many years.

His hands drifted around her waist and with slow intent he drew down the zip of her skirt until it too joined the growing wardrobe of the floor.

Her hands reached out and cajoled his belt unbuckled before, with light fingers, she eased his already under pressure zip down and away.

He stepped out of the pooled trousers at his feet and smoothly divested himself of his socks.

She stepped out of the skirt below her, kicking it away.

As the breath rose and fell in his chest and the expectation pulled heavily at them both, he moved forward towards her, until they could feel the heat of the other; until the cups of her bra brushed the light hairs of his chest; until she could feel his breath on her skin.

And still they hovered there… waiting

Lips wanting…but waiting.

Because they both understood, that when finally those lips met, this tantalising expectation would be gone.

And then it was gone.

And as lips met lips, skin met skin and heat met heat, the expectation was finally surpassed.

* * *

**Probably a light epilogue to finish off.**


	18. Epilogue

**And finally we reach the end. Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews.**

* * *

"You were right, Harry."

She sat down at the kitchen table.

He knew he was right. He knew 'they' were right.

He knew without a single shadow of a doubt, that the sheer enormity of all that he was feeling was well beyond the realm of 'right'.

And now she knew it too.

"You were right," she repeated, smiling, "...about overdoing it on the toothpaste front. It's everywhere."

He laughed.

"But the good news is, it's the same type that I use," she smiled.

"Have you got any idea how much I love you, Ruth?"

Her eyes shot up to him.

"I think I do," she said, reaching out for his hand and caressing it.

"You may, but strangely, I don't."

She looked at him quizzically.

"I have no idea, Ruth. I thought I did, I was certain of it. But I was wrong, last night proved that."

He turned her hand over in his and studied it. She may have been worried: in the past she would have been, but not now, not with the tone of his voice and the look in his eye.

"It turns out, Ruth, that when I thought I couldn't love you more, I find that I can. I do. I love you more today than yesterday and I suspect that I'll love you more tomorrow. And before you say it, no, I'm not making that decision solely based on the events of last night."

"I wasn't going to say that," she said, "though the 'events' of last night were rather ..nice."

"Nice!?"

"Marvellous. Wonderful."

"Hmm," he muttered, still unconvinced after 'nice'.

"Unbelievably wonderful," she added.

He looked up.

"We appear to be back to 'unbelievable' again, Ruth."

"I've read your file: your seductive powers were never in question, Harry."

"But it was still unbelievable?" And there was a smile pulling at his lips and beyond a hint of smug satisfaction in his eyes.

"It surpassed my expectations," was all she said.

"By how much?"

"Enough."

"Enough?"

"More than enough.'

"So you had thought about it before, Ruth?"

"Yes, Harry, I -"

"So, how -"

It was her turn to interrupt him.

"On several occasions, well, many occasions actually and before you ask, however well I imagined it, it was nowhere near as good as that. Now stop looking for any more compliments and boosts to you ego and get the kettle on!"

He got up from the table and crossed around to her, pulling her gently to her feet. His hands cradling her face with all the tenderness in the world.

"Earl grey do you, Ruth?"

"You'll do me," she whispered

And then he kissed her.


End file.
